


Hands

by jasmasson



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-05-15
Updated: 2001-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 06:24:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11330322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasmasson/pseuds/jasmasson
Summary: For the SlashingMulder 1st Anniversary Snippet Challenge





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Hands by Jas Masson

Author: Jas Masson  
Title: Hands  
Pairing: M/K  
Series: No  
Spoilers: No  
Rating: NC17  
Category: Slash, snippet  
Warning: There is a warning at the end, if you want to read it before reading the fic to be on the safe side, please go to the bottom of the page.  
Summary: For the SlashingMulder 1st Anniversary Snippet Challenge

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Hands (NC17)

His hands.

Strong, but long fingered and elegant. Illustrating ideas the rest of us couldn't possibly understand, trying to convey to us lesser beings truths that are soo obvious if only we could *see*.

His hands, strong and angry clenched into fists as he beats me. It's a bittersweet pleasure to feel those hands on me. Yes. Mould me, shape me, make me into what you want, make me into you. But I flinch away from the hands, feeling they were made for so much more, that I dirty them by letting them touch me. Certainly I would never raise my dirty hands to him. When he beat me I had the defense of my unworthiness, I didn't let him see. I was beneath him, my feelings not important. Kept it all inside, my precious, painful secret.

But when they touched me gently. I felt that my heart would burst, unable to take the feeling of sheer joy; shivering as his blessed hands gently brushed away the tears.

He took hold of my chin and made me face him. Told me to open my eyes and I had to obey, unable to deny him anything, even the horrifying humiliation of seeing my vulnerability, my helplessness before him. I stared up at him. He was more than beautiful, he was everything in the world and he was with me. His hands on me, touching me, owning me, making me his. They were the link between us. His hands. Connecting me to him. He touched me everywhere, no part of me not graced by his hands, mapped by his fingers, unmade and remade by his touch.

His hands on my body, his hands on my soul. 

He smiled down at me as I stared at him. Pleased at what he saw in my eyes, his eyes not leaving mine even as his hands found my body as open and defenseless to his touch as my soul was to his eyes. He stroked my thighs apart and prepared me, his fingers so gentle as they entered me. I felt they should be a sword tearing me in two physically as surely as they broke my heart.

The push of his cock into me was a relief, somehow less intimate than his sensitive, knowing hands exploring me, but it broke me just the same, physically claiming me as his completely. The powerful thrust of his body into mine taking me, taking what belonged so utterly to him. I cried in my pleasure, at his pleasure and sobbed without restraint as his gentle hand traced the lines of my face over and over before moving down to brush his thumb over the erratic pulse at my neck. Destroying me perfectly, gentle even as his thrusts reached their frenzied peak.

His hand closed around me as he drove home and just the one touch, so intimate on me was enough to make me lose myself in his possession and he followed me instantly.

There were no words between us that first time, just his hands on my body, pulling me to him, wiping away my tears, brushing away my fears and holding me so tightly that I believed for that moment he'd never let me go. 

I trace his hand now gently, reverently. Memorize the shape, the feel. He would often laugh at my tentativeness when I touched him, even after our intimacy of so long. He didn't really understand you see. Didn't realize the depths of my devotion, how I feared that to touch him, would be to blemish him in some way, always astounded anew that not only would he stoop to touch me, but allow himself to be touched. And just as I felt his approval through his touch, his fingers telling me what was never voiced, I feared my own touch would betray how my soul was broken by him, shattered into pieces each time he touched me and remade with streaks of light that came only from him.

I never said it either, although I'm sure he knew. It was up to him, of course, as everything was, and if it ended with regrets at what remained unspoken, I always thought they'd be his. If he rejected me there'd be no regrets, no possible regret that I'd once been his and he'd deigned to have me. There would be nothing. The end of me. But no regrets. And of course with my life his to do with as he wished, Scully and Skinner protecting him with theirs, even the Smoking Bastard watching over him, in our violent lives I would go first. It was impossible that his light would be extinguished and that I would go on. Unthinkable.

I clutch his hand again. Unthinkable that without his light there would be my shadow. Unthinkable that without this hand to touch me, to mould me, to *make* me, that there was anything left of me.

I press my lips one last time to his cold, dead palm and get off my knees next to his trolley. I release his hand with spiked regret, watching the tears I'd left on it drop to the floor as his hand hangs loose by his side. It won't be this way for long. My own unworthy hands will reap justice and then finally, truly, make me part of him.

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Finis  
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Warning: Death Fic. Sorry.

 

=====  
"I like to think of myself as one of the happy generation" Agent Albert Rosenfield

Jas Masson X-Files Discipline Slash: http://geocities.com/eveverfrost/indexjas.html

  
Archived: April 21, 2001 


End file.
